


Heel

by 13ways



Series: Maybe I Miss You [2]
Category: One Direction (Band)
Genre: Anal Sex, Angst, Blood, Bottom Louis, Boxing, Canon Compliant, Enemies to Friends to Lovers, Ex Sex, Hate Sex, Hate to Love, Love/Hate, M/M, Masturbation, Pining, Sparring, Trauma, Violence, Wordplay Fics 2019
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-25
Updated: 2019-06-25
Packaged: 2020-05-19 12:11:37
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,762
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19356790
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/13ways/pseuds/13ways
Summary: Louis and Harry beat each other to a pulp in a boxing ring.This is Part 2 of a canon-compliant series. Part 1 isThumbing My Way Back to You, and Part 3 isWild Horses. Part 4,A Certain Romance, is available now.





	Heel

**Author's Note:**

> This is part of a Wordplay prompt challenge for the prompt "foot". To read the amazing fics that were written by the others on this prompt, [click here](https://archiveofourown.org/collections/foot), and to see all fics written as part of the challenge (including years 1 and 2), [click here](https://archiveofourown.org/collections/wordplay_fic_challenge/works). You can also find the masterpost for this year’s challenge [here](https://wordplayfics.tumblr.com/post/185709101043/wordplay-2019-every-week-for-five-weeks-a-prompt).

 

Harry enters the gym. He spots his trainer waiting for him in the back, near the sparring ring. The glass doors waft closed behind him.

He raises a hand in greeting, accustomed to the brief, curious stares of other people— mostly guys who look discreetly away, respectful of the celebrities who come here to work out. For the steep price he pays, Harry Styles can pretend, for an hour a day, that he’s just another lanky bloke in a big grey hoodie, hair up with a clip, gym bag over one shoulder and beat-up Nikes on his feet.

“David,” Harry calls out. “How are the boys?”

His trainer is not tall. He’s a compact and densely muscular man with a kind face.

“The young natives are restless!” David raises his fist for Harry to bump. “It’s nearly the summer holidays, you know? They’re itching to get outdoors; been cooped up in school all year.”

“Are they big enough for school already?”

“Nursery school,” David answers. He throws Harry a roll of tape for his hands. “They like to pretend they’re going to work every morning.”

“How adorable. You should bring them around,” Harry smiles. He sticks the tape in his bag, and walks around the ring, heading toward the locker rooms. He pauses at the door. “So are you taking the family anywhere?”

“Going to California. Disneyland, mate,” David says. “I’ll be gone ten days, looking forward to it.” David starts walking toward Harry. “Think you can survive without me?”

“Don’t know. Soul Cycle isn’t up to your sadistic standards, sir,” Harry grins and slaps his belly playfully. “I’m afraid I’ll be marbling quite nicely while you’re gone.”

David chuckles as he approaches Harry. There’s an expression on his face that Harry can’t quite read, a hesitancy and uncertainty. “Harry, you know, I was thinking.”

Harry composes his features. “Yeah?”

“Since I’ll be gone,” David says, “I thought we might try something different today, take it up a notch.”

“Sounds alright,” Harry tips his chin. “What are you planning?”

At that moment, the front door of the gym swings open, and a figure comes in that Harry would recognize anywhere on earth. Time stalls. Harry can’t help being mesmerized by the familiar body in motion— by his thin, loose limbs, the angular shoulders, the chestnut hair, his fidgety energy.

Louis, on the other hand, isn’t looking anywhere but straight ahead, and he obviously hasn’t seen Harry. When Harry turns and catches David’s eye, it all clicks into place.

“I’ve been training him,” David admits, looking sheepish. “Sorry. I guess I should’ve said something.”

Harry tried to school his face.

“I— didn’t know.” His voice comes out flat. Harry sounds like a robot, he thinks, an idiotic machine. Best not to sound accusatory. Play it cool. 

At any rate, he doesn’t have much time to think, because Louis’ already walking toward them.

“Hiya, David.” Louis nods a greeting at him. His eyes are icy blue, cold and brilliant. It isn’t an unfriendly look, but tense and expectant. Louis turns his head a few inches toward Harry but doesn’t quite meet his eyes. “Alright, Harry?”

“Are we supposed to— ” Harry isn’t looking at Louis either. His question is directed to David, who has turned calm, the eye in a storm.

“Spar,” David finishes for him. “Louis’ been working with me for a few weeks now. I thought it might be good for both of you— ”

“To work it out,” Louis interjects. His Yorkshire consonants are tough, crisp. “In the ring. Swing it all out, like.”

David’s hand comes up of its own accord, as if he’s already refereeing a fight. “Sparring with each other takes away the complacency you have with me,” he says, his voice deep and calm, yet doing nothing for the feelings in the air. “Both of you. It’ll keep you on your toes. It should be a good workout, and who knows, maybe you can keep it going while I’m gone. Help each other, you know what I mean.”

“There won’t be any complacency from me,” Louis utters a laugh, like a rattle from a machine gun. “I’m one hundred percent committed, you know that, David.”

Harry whips his head up, but Louis’ face registers nothing. The moment hangs awkwardly between them. Harry is waiting for Louis to say something, but Louis seems to be doing the same. Finally Louis grips his duffle and heads to the locker room, passing Harry without another word.

The air feels oxygen-thin. Harry opens his mouth, breathing deeper, staring at his trainer whom he trusts— correction, _trusted_ — with the greatest discretion.

“It’s alright,” David says, trying to placate. “Three rounds. Seven minutes, tops. Then we’ll do free weights, you and I, get some core work in.”

“I didn’t know,” Harry repeats in his robot voice, as if he’s a broken record unable to move past the skip. “How long have you… did Louis Tomlinson contact you? How— ”

“Louis called me, yes,” David says. “It was funny, actually.”

Harry’s puzzled expression must have asked a silent question. David takes a chance on it.

“He introduced himself as your ‘former’ bandmate,” David chuckles. “I mean, duh. It’s not as if I didn’t know you at all, Harry.” Harry hopes his face gives nothing away. His media-trained eyes widen only ever so slightly. “Louis asked if it was alright for me to work with him. He had a project coming up and he wanted to get in shape,” David continues. “You were in Japan at the time, and wouldn’t be home for weeks. So I asked him to come to my studio. I didn’t think it would be a problem, seeing as your training doesn’t overlap.” David pauses. “Is it? A problem?” 

Harry furrows his eyebrows, digesting the information. It’s been months, then, and David has said nothing, wary of how he might react. He probably had an inkling that Harry would be exactly like this. David bends down and starts sorting the free weights, trying to look busy. Embarrassed, Harry realizes his mouth is still open. He clamps his jaw shut and unclips his hair, running a hand through it to hide his face.

”No,” Harry lies. “It’s not a problem at all.” 

“Great.” David turns around. “See you back in five, mate. Don’t forget your mouthguard and headgear today. Your ex-bandmate’s a tough one.”

Harry can’t help himself. “Tougher than me?”

David laughs softly, a cryptic sound. “He’s tough enough. And it’s not a contest, is it, between you? Just training. Not a real fight, yeah? Go on.”

Inside the locker room, Louis is putting his gear away. He’s dressed in long white shorts and a loose tank, wrapping white boxing tape around his palms and knuckles. Harry can’t help a customary glance over him, checking him out in a proprietary way. It’s been over a month since their phone conversation, on the plane. Louis has had a hair trim. His thighs look stronger than they did; apparently he’s eating okay— and working out. His bum is nice and muscular. His shoulder blades angle out like a falcon’s, sleek and smooth, with no motion wasted. He moves with his usual delicacy and speed. Harry realizes that it’s actually painful to see him so close.

Feeling this attention, Louis says, “How’ve you been, Harry?”

Harry catches himself. “Um, good. I’m good. You?”

“Thanks for,” Louis gestures between them, “this. David told me he was leaving for hols. Hope you don’t mind.” He watches Harry warily.

“No,” Harry answers. “I was— just wasn’t expecting it. I didn’t know you were training with…”

He leaves the sentence unfinished, with its unspoken question. _With my trainer. Why._ Louis takes out the equipment he needs and doesn’t seem to be paying attention, and it is dropped.

Harry unzips his gym bag on the bench between them. He changes, peeling off his hoodie and his sweatpants, conscious of Louis’ appraisal even if he isn’t looking at him directly. Harry knows he’s fit enough, and they’re in a public locker room where anyone can walk in at any time, but the moment still seems uncomfortably intimate, almost as if he should go into a bathroom stall to change. The club is posh enough to have mood lighting; there isn’t a harsh angle anywhere in the locker room. Still, Harry can feel Louis’ eyes. The skin between his shoulders prickle with warmth, no doubt pinking up his ears, as when he gets embarrassed. Or aroused. This fact, and the fact that Louis knows, make him blush harder.

“Fuck,” he swears under his breath. He looks away, hoping his curls can hide some of it. 

“I’ll wait for you out there then,” Louis says, matter-of-fact. He goes around the bench to pass Harry, taking care not to make skin contact.

“Hey,” Louis talks into Harry’s shoulder, not looking at him. “I’m about to put my foot up your arse, just so you know. David’s a bloody good trainer. I don’t want you to spare my feelings, ‘cause I won’t, yours.”

”No chance,” Harry says. 

“Good, then,” Louis tosses it off. “We don’t have to make it weird.” 

“It’s not weird,” Harry retorts, low and gravelly, but without much conviction. “Put it where your money is, Tomlinson. May the best man win.” 

Louis coughs. “If it gets too much, you can tell me to leave, yeah?” He stops, and then adds, “It’s not personal, Harry. Just training. We’re both grown ups, aren’t we, our... past notwithstanding.”

“Trust me.” Harry glares. “I have no problems with kicking your teeth in. It’ll be a pleasure.” 

Louis stops and studies him stoically. “Sick. I’ll leave whenever you say.”

He slips out the door. Harry leans against his locker, digesting Louis’ words. His mouth tastes like salt. Sweat pools under his armpits and beads under his nose, but there’s nothing he can do about it. He swallows, feeling a knot in his throat like a jagged ruby. He sees only the tousled waves of Louis’ hair, the ducktail flip at the nape of his neck, accentuating the curve of it and contrasting with the lone straight vein. He sees the animated pulls of his mouth when he smack-talks, and he does want to— smack him, preferably hard. He wants to pull him in and smack some sense into him, smack him until they are in each other’s faces, on each other, twisted deep and forced to talk. Louis’ been gone for seconds, but Harry smells him still, his scent of evergreens and leather, and the rough sweetness of him. It sends his head round the bend.

When Harry comes out, Louis is already in the ring with David, sparring into his boxing pads. Louis is wearing his mouthguard, giving him the look of a predatory cat, a lynx, maybe. He’s shifting dexterously on his feet, quick and fluid. However, Harry can see that Louis still has the awkward motions of a beginner. His cuts aren’t wide enough and he doesn’t follow through, tending to punch with his arms out. His concentration is intense, though, and his coordination is good, his hips following the upper body with an athlete’s natural grace. He always had a beautiful kick, his whole body wound like a loaded spring. Louis is string theory in action. He holds his concentration until they’re done.

David spots Harry in his peripheral vision, waiting. He acknowledges him.

“Ready?” he calls out to Harry.

Harry nods silently. He slips the hair tie off his wrist and knots the long fringe on top of his scalp. Finally, he positions his mouth guard and puts on his head gear, climbing with a practiced ease into the ring.

Louis stands with elbows bent by his side. He has the coiled vigilance of a hunter, but also of a boy ready to set fire to the church reliquaries. He holds himself with a respectful stillness as he waits.

When Harry comes to stand opposite him, Louis raises his gloves to chest level. Without breaking eye contact, Harry taps both of them with his gloves.

_Cheers._

“Two and a half minutes, gentlemen!” David shouts. “I want a fair fight. No brawling, no hitting below the belt. Get in there and show me the good stuff! Just like we worked on, understand?” Harry and Louis are merely circling each other, Louis with his gloves by his sides, both eyeing each other with luminous intensity. “And go!”

Louis raises his gloves, and Harry pivots his back to the ropes. For a few seconds, they dance around each other, making small jabs and feints, trying to assess the other’s strength and speed. In all their previous athletic endeavors within One Direction— playing American football or world soccer, running up and down stadium stairs and arena tracks, lifting weights in the gym or riding bikes— they had never been in direct, face-to-face confrontation with each other. They were always in it together, even as they joked about how painful it was (and it _was_ ). Now that they’re buffeted by helmets and mouthguards, tape and gloves and insulation, all this protection does not disguise the fact that they are men fighting alone— finally unlinked by circumstance. They were sharing a trainer and Harry hadn’t known it for months. Nothing is clear. 

Louis circles round and attempts an uppercut, but Harry is faster, ducking out of the way. He waits a second while Louis steadies himself, right foot forward, adjusting his balance. Harry feints a left cut, and then follows through with a fast right hook, connecting solidly under Louis’ chin. He sees Louis wince, and spit from between his teeth.

“Nice combo!” David yells.

“Sorry,” Harry mumbles. It comes out a rough growl through his gear.

At any rate, with his headgear on, Louis can’t hear much of anything. He lowers his chin and advances again, gloves poised at chest level. Seeing an opening, Harry swings out, but Louis is just as quick, dropping his left hand to his belly and rolling his shoulder to the side, catching Harry in a left hook and hard counter right cross. Harry is knocked sideways with this surprisingly hard punch, one that will leave a bruise. The pain kicks him like a wild hare.

David seems surprised, too. He turns toward Louis with new appreciation. “Slick move, Louis. Well done!”

Louis nods slightly and hones in on Harry, who is still nursing the jab. Louis quickly cuts him again across the cheek, but his fist does not land squarely this time. Instinctively, Harry pushes him off, putting both hands up to protect his face. Louis springs away in a semicircle around him, his feet dancing as light as feathers.

Against the ropes, Harry readies his attack. He studies Louis’ movements for an opening in which his longer arm can dart in and deliver an unexpected force. He’s concentrating intensely, watching every fluid motion. When the opportunity comes, he doesn’t hesitate. The hook-cut combination knocks Louis back. The elegance of Harry’s strike is like lightning, connecting electricity to earth with an ineluctable power. This, too, will leave a decisive mark.

Harry retreats, stunned by the force of his punch snapping Louis’ head back. He drops his hands for a moment and stops moving, trying to gauge how much he might have hurt Louis. Harry’s aware that David is hovering ever closer now, probably appreciating, at last, that this was a bad— an amazingly, fucking shortsighted— idea. Harry almost feels sympathy for his trainer; David couldn’t have known. He doesn’t know how intense they are, how hard they go, their whole tangled, tear and blood-stained history. It also makes this dreadfully, painfully funny.

_Too bloody late, David. You tried._

Meanwhile, Harry’s hesitation doesn’t go unnoticed. Like a hornet, Louis surges straight on with a hard right upper cut across Harry’s mouth, where his lip drags across his mouthguard. A few beads of blood immediately begin to seep out. Without realizing the damage he has caused, Louis follows through with a counter jab from the opposite fist, causing Harry’s lip to swell freakishly fast, blossoming like a rose. Louis’ glove comes away smeared in the dark liquid.

Seeing the blood at last, Louis staggers back, his lips parted and eyes wide. David rushes over to Harry, who stands taller than him and whose blood is running down the chin strap of his headgear. Harry gingerly touches his lips with a glove, as if checking to see whether he can still feel, or that he still has a mouth. His pallor contrasts against the bright red gloves, the blood a darker, creamier shade, smearing his mouth like a feasting animal.

“You alright?” David is saying loudly, unfastening Harry’s headgear with stuttering fingers. “Christ, sit down, will you? Let’s have a look at that.”

But Harry only turns to watch Louis, who is still silently standing, as if he’s looking at art he’s created— or listening to the master tape of a song he’s written.

Louis takes off his gloves, removes his mouthguard and steps forward.

“Boyo,” he says. “Your lip’s bleeding.”

Harry shakes his head, loosens and bends his neck for David to remove his headgear. He spits out his mouthguard into David’s waiting hand, giving birth.

Through a mouthful of thick redness, Harry raises his right eyebrow. “Is it?”

“It fucking is,” Louis says nonchalantly.

Harry’s nose has become coated with his own blood, and out of his left nostril, a bubble begins to blow. He doesn’t react at all as it pops. The moment passes like a surreal comedy sketch.

Louis makes a swiping motion across his own face. “You look like a fucking disaster.” 

David has already sprinted to the corner and gotten a hand towel, and is now pressing it against Harry’s lip.

“Take your gloves off,” he says to Harry. “Hold this. Put some pressure on it.” He glances from Harry to Louis, failing to grasp their bewildering, bizarre conversation. “Could you get us some ice, Louis?”

Louis stares at him as if David’s asked him to lift twenty stones in weight. David waits a few beats, then experiences that uncomfortable feeling again, as if he’s an alien butting into their private world. Something’s clearly happening. David just has no idea what it is.

Meanwhile, Harry is still steadily watching Louis.

David clears his throat. “The break room,” he says. “There’s a freezer on top of the fridge, and inside it are trays of ice.”

Louis snaps to, suddenly realizing that he’s being addressed. “Sure, of course.”

A few moments later, he has emptied ice cubes into a sealable plastic bag, and is running back into the gym, where Harry is sat on the floor, leaning against the back wall. Next to him, David is gently tapping the exposed skin around his lips, his expression alternating between consternation and confusion.

“I had no idea this would happen,” he was saying. “Why do you lads go so hard? It’s sport, not murder.” He shakes his head, and adds, incredulous, “It’s supposed to be fun, for Christ’s sake. You didn’t have to— ” 

Louis hands him the ice. “Does it look bad?”

To answer, Harry lifts the towel away, showing big, bruised, plummy lips, with dried blood caked around the periphery. He is the poster child for morbidly, lusciously-full-lipped post-apocalyptic male models. Clearly he is also a lion who’s eaten too much antelope this fine day, hiding the carcass somewhere in the grassy savannah, invisible to all but for its superbly iron-rich mammalian odor. Harry looks tranquilized, slightly stoned. Serves him right for gorging on so much fresh blood.

“Fuuuuuck,” Louis exhales. “That’s amazing.” 

“He’ll be alright in a day or three.” David’s face screws up in sympathy. He presses the bag of ice against Harry’s mouth. “It’s all internal, thank goodness— no scars on the face, as far as I can tell. Damn, Louis,” he shakes his head. “You take no prisoners, I guess. That was dead brutal.”

“Think he should go to hospital?” Louis asks, index finger against his lips. “He’s got an expensive face, you know. Harry’s the face of Gucci.” He giggles then, but quickly realizes how inappropriate it is and censors himself. “I’m sorry, Harry. Forget I said that. That was uncalled for. Does it hurt?”

“Yes.” Harry’s voice is low, growling. It sounds like _yath._

“It’s so swollen.” Louis has a wisp of a smile. “Do you want to hit me back?” Louis’ face is positively glowing now. “If it makes you feel better, you can hit me as hard as you want. Bare knuckles.” 

“No.” Harry can barely articulate his consonants. He closes his eyes. “We’ll do a rematch later.”

“What?”

“Rematch,” Harry sighs, opening his eyes in frustration. _Ramath,_ he’s saying. “Lay-tuh.”

The corner of Louis’ mouth curves up. “Tomlinson, one. Styles, zero.”

“ _Remath_ _.”_ Harry winces. His lip splits open with every motion, threatening fresh blood. His lower teeth start to form the word, “Fuck,” but it’s too painful even to do that. Harry cocks his head and makes a phone sign with his free hand. _I’ll call you._

“Can’t wait.” Louis picks up all his things. “Sorry I’ve put my money where my mouth is. So to speak. And sorry you put your foot in yours.”

Harry’s eyes narrow. Staring up from the floor, he gravely flips Louis the middle finger, the condensation on the bag of ice dripping down his huge hand. 

“Tomlinson, one,” Louis chirps smugly. “Styles, zero.” 

Louis winks at him— his flirty, left-eyed slow wink— chuckles once more, and turns for the locker room. His gait is jaunty, his sway gleeful. Harry wants to rush him and trip him, crush him down. He can’t take his eyes off him, however, and unfortunately, he knows they both know that. He watches until Louis’ legs disappear through the locker room doors. Harry can feel David’s questions percolating at the surface. He just doesn’t feel like talking about it right now. He turns back to the cold, brutal icing which is much easier. 

Over the next two weeks, Harry’s lips slowly transform, by turns, from indigo to olive to chartreuse and back to posy pink again. Their shape shifts back to the original. The perfect Cupid’s bow is restored. His teeth no longer grate like chainsaws when he tries to eat. He hears nothing from Louis— not that he expected to— but he’s still disappointed and allows himself to feel it.

For exercise, Harry cycles and lifts at home. His body’s softening from not pushing himself, and he has to hit the gym soon.

On one particularly restless night, Harry pulls out his mobile and impulsively composes a text.

**_Where are you?_ **

He waits a few minutes, watching the dots scroll by. It suddenly dawns on him that it is Friday night, at 20:00 hours. Harry doesn’t know what the fuck he’s expecting, really. No one answers texts on Friday nights, except lonely rejects. Or sends them, for that matter. And Louis… he’s definitely neither, or at least wouldn’t cop to it. His very stubbornness makes Harry want to jump through the phone and tackle him. To pass time, Harry scrolls through his email. There are new proofs from the Gucci fragrance shoot, along with a few Italian slang words Lallo has sent for him to learn. The dates for a few fall Sony and Columbia events have been added to his calendar. A second and third email includes photos of possible Gucci nail polish colours, and new boots.

Harry waits, telling himself Louis is probably having dinner somewhere loud, or has forgotten his phone. Still, nothing. 

Harry deletes the next three emails from elite travel agencies and financial services, and is about to read the next email when a text notification pops up, taking him by surprise.

_I‘m home. What do you want_

Harry frowns, biting back a smile. Louis being at home on Friday night is a testament to their being middle-aged. 

**_Meet me at the gym_**

_Bollocks!_

The answer shoots back immediately, as fast as a text message can travel. Harry actually chuckles out loud, now that it no longer hurts to laugh. He can almost see Louis’ thumbs flying like squirrels on his mobile.

_I’ve got plans, boyo. Night out_

**_Call it off. Midnight, at the gym. You and I_**

The flashing dots hover on his phone. Harry fidgets, wanting to hit the “call” button, but holding back only because that would be exactly what Louis’ expecting. Got to show some self-restraint, he thinks. Harry’s not going to look eager now, not after waiting for weeks, is he? Louis can’t always call him to heel. Right?

Ahhhh. Fuck self-restraint. Harry knows he has lost, the minute he decided to text Louis. 

 **_Meet me, Boo. Want a rematch._ **He hits send.

_Told you, I’m busy. How about one of them Hollywood friends? They’ll smash your pretty face for free_

A few seconds pass, and a new text flashes up. 

_Have you dragged David into it this time?_

Harry puckers his lips.

**_No, it’s just us_ **

He smells Louis’ indelible sweetness, and his hand goes to his belly automatically, palm flat against his butterfly tattoo. His fingers are restless. His soft belly hairs push up through the threadbare shirt.

**_Lou?_ **

**_I’ll be there. Hope you show up_ **

He doesn’t get an answer, nor did he expect one. Four hours. That gives him some time.

By 12:28 AM, Harry’s almost fallen asleep waiting in the corner of the boxing ring. He has been checking his phone relentlessly, knowing there will be nothing. He opens up Netflix to click through his saved shows, wondering just how pathetic and funny it is for Harry Styles to be watching a romantic comedy while being stood up at an empty gym on a Friday night, when a stadium full of girls would be outside right now if they knew. Despite the brightly fluorescent lights overhead, Harry’s dead tired. He slumps against the blankets that he has piled behind him, at right angles between the ropes. Therefore he doesn’t hear the front door open, nor the lights click off. He’s half-sleep, mildly snoring and unaware of quiet movements in the gym, nor of someone tiptoeing closer.

A soft stroke to his face scares him wide awake.

“Fuck!” Harry’s head jerks away. “Fuck off.”

He smells him first, since his eyes are searching wildly in the dark. The sweet evergreen of him, his delicate toughness. Harry’s heart leaps.

“Rough place to hang out on a Friday night, darling,” Louis’ raspy voice comes across. “What would Jeff say?”

Harry swallows. His hand reaches out in the darkness, trying to find him.

“Louis,” Harry says, ever so slightly breathless. “You came.” 

“Thought I might drop by,” Louis says. “Got to run soon, though. Lads are waiting for me.” 

Adjusted to the dim illumination coming from the street, Harry sees his silhouette, then slowly, the shape of an arm, the slope of a nose, the flutter of eyelashes. He doesn’t know whether he’s imagining all of these things, since he sees them all the time in his head anyway. _He’s here. Louis’ here. My Louis._

Fingers touch his face, find his mouth.

“All healed, then?”

Harry stills. “I guess.”

“Has the feeling come back completely?” Louis comes closer, close enough for Harry to feel his exhalations on his cheek. Harry turns toward him instinctively.

“I don’t know.” Harry feels his pulse in his throat. He wants Louis to eat his heartbeat. 

“Don’t know?” Louis’ thin lips barely brush the corner of Harry’s mouth, a phantom in the darkness. It is feline. “Poor baby. Can you feel that?”

“Maybe,” Harry answers cheekily. “I don’t know.” He turns so that they’re face to face, their lips barely touching, the curves lined up in the dark. “Kiss me.”

“Asking for a kiss already?” Louis laughs. Tat-tat-tat-tat. “Presumptuous.”

Without a second thought, Harry leans in and kisses Louis’ upper lip. He knows how it feels, even in the dark. He’s kissed it too many times not to know. Louis tastes like mint toothpaste with a faint undertone of cigarettes. He must have prepared, too. It excites Harry, knowing Louis wants this. Harry doesn’t know what to expect, but he’s beyond caring. Louis is here. It’s what he’d hoped for.

Louis doesn’t kiss him back, but he doesn’t move away, either.

“What are we doing, Harry?” The question is subdued, wary and pensive. 

“We’re in a boxing ring,” Harry answers cheekily. “So we must be sparring.”

He opens his mouth and kisses Louis instead, tilting his face like they do in a romantic comedy, one soft kiss after another. Louis’ lips come alive with feeling. Harry grabs onto Louis’ shirt to keep him closer, sending the resistance in his body fall away. Louis presses back against him and licks softly, tasting him, feeling the contours of his lip.

“I’m sorry I hurt you, Hazza.” Louis kisses him, gently sucking at his fullness. His voice softens with his innate sweetness. “You okay?”

“No,” Harry answers, petulant. “I’m not.” 

“Oh, baby.” Louis caresses his jaw, the way he has done a thousand times before. It always feel right with him. He knows just how to do it to Harry, how to make him feel human, to feel real.

“You hurt me,” Harry says. “And I want you to, so badly. Only you.” Harry leans forward, his broad shoulders towering over Louis, muscular arms on either side. “Every time. You’re all I want.” 

“Harry...” Louis begins.

“You... you fill my head,” Harry proceeds, his lips wandering over to Louis’ face, retracing his memories of him. “You’re the only one who can take me apart and put me back together. You fill my head all the time, and I can’t stop it. I fucking miss you so much. I miss you. I miss you, Boo.” 

Louis sinks back. He’s lying on the vinyl floor of the ring, his body open. 

“I try,” Harry says, his voice cracked beyond caring, “Louis. But I can’t. Can’t get you out of my fucking mind. I’m fucking lunatic with wanting to be with you.” 

Louis pulls on Harry’s shirt so Harry lands on top of him, solid and heavy. His face is so close that he can’t see Harry’s eyes. 

“Me too.” Louis opens his mouth, ready for him. “I miss you too. Want you so much.” 

Louis kisses Harry then, running a hand to the back of his neck and parting the curls there. Harry’s body covers him completely, his warmth and taut muscles like a protective carapace, shielding them. He parts Louis’ lips and licks inside, feeling him responsive and warm, licking him back just as strongly. Louis’ here. Louis kissed him. Louis wants him too. Harry paws at Louis’ waist and shimmies his shirt over his head, as he peels off his own thin tee shirt. Their skin comes alive next to each other, the heat hardening their bodies instantly. Harry’s pecs become taut and firm, pressing into Louis’ chest. He feels Louis arch his hips into his crotch and rut against him with that familiar spark of desire. It doesn’t help that Louis’ hand comes up and pinches his nipple, rubbing it between his fingers, twisting the arousal right to his crotch. Harry buries his face into Louis’ neck and sucks in the scent that he has so sorely missed. He licks Louis at the base of the throat, follows the vein up the side of his neck and bites, holding on to him with incisors and tongue. Louis grunts his desire, wrapping a leg around Harry, pumps his hips with every breath. 

“Lou,” Harry breaks off, lifting himself. “I have stuff.”

Louis smiles, breathing hard. “What a boy scout. Always prepared.” 

Harry drags the blankets from the corner of the ring into the middle, and smoothes them down. Louis’ taken off his trackies and pants, and Harry takes off his pants too. He lunges for Louis’ neck and sucks hard, making a bruise almost as big and nasty as the fat lip Louis gave him. They were teens when they started, but now they aim harder, rougher, faster. Next to him, he feels Louis arching his hips up, lifting the small of his back off the floor, and along with Louis’ quick, high-pitched groans, he knows Louis’ hard already. Harry himself is ramrod hard, wet with want and desire. He pushes at Louis, parting his legs. Instinctively, Louis opens to accept him, feeling his wetness penetrate him at the perineum. So close to Louis’ hole, Harry is nearly mad with want. 

“Wanna fuck you from behind,” Harry pants. “Say yes. Please, Lou. Please let me.” 

Louis bites his lips. He turns on his side and swings his leg over, exposing himself.

“Use a condom,” he says. “Be a gentleman.”

Harry roams toward the corner of the ring, retrieves a string of condoms from a bag on the floor, tears one off and opens it, rolling it on himself with easy muscle memory. He slicks up the condom with lube. Next, he finds Louis’ bare feet below him, and after his hands have felt the contours of his ankles, Harry holds the foot he’s looking for, the one with the triangle tattoo.

He leans over toward the foot and, with the reverence due to sacred objects, even though he can’t see it, kisses the skin right over the tattoo.

“I love you,” Harry says, both to the tattoo and to its genius owner, whose freedom was established as soon as he got the ink, regardless of the hateful world around him. His thumb traces the triangle in the dark. “So much.”

Harry begins with the back of the calves, planting kisses in the cinnamon-colored hair, up the round and muscular thighs, and on each arse cheek. Louis breathes lightly as Harry puts his hand between them, spreading them apart. He rolls Louis over on his belly and lowers himself down, planting most of his weight on his knees and one elbow. With one hand, he guides his sheathed cock to Louis’ hole and nudges. Louis tilts his arse in the air, giving him access.

They connect. Harry pushes himself in, feeling Louis contract and relax around him, one slow centimeter at a time. Louis grunts, receiving him. Harry pumps his hips slowly, letting them both enjoy the experience, the slight pain on opening, the arousal when the cock settles in. Harry shifts his torso so he’s hovering over Louis, the heat of their bodies palpable on each other, his hard nipples grazing down Louis’ back. Louis has turned his face to the side, and Harry kisses the back of his neck, his ripped latissimus muscles, the soft hair falling on the nape. His shoulders have curved to fit into Harry’s. The smell of the ocean fills his nose, salty and clean, mixed with Louis’ gentle fragrance.

Finally, Louis is completely stretched and Harry starts to move, hitting what he knows is Louis’ sweet spot. Harry’s size means he was on Louis’ prostate an inch ago, as Louis held his breath and exhaled loudly. Harry bites down on Louis’ shoulder, pumping faster and more fluidly, his hips a piston of animal need, a roaring wave of desire building at the base of his spine. He feels Louis’ body pitch forward with each thrust, and he tightens the grip on his hip to hold him in place, pumping harder. His hand digs a Harry-sized set of fingerprints into Louis’ hips, marking him. _He is mine._ Louis’ arse bounces like jelly against his cock. Harry imagines how they might look, his cock deep in Louis, Louis’ eyes closed and moaning more desperately now, face fucked out, content. Louis’ high and raspy moans fill the room like a song, each groan spurring Harry to pump harder, hips jerking in and out toward an inevitable destiny. They know each other’s rhythm so well that Harry speeds up toward the end, holding Louis by his waist and pumping like a piston. 

They’re both panting breathlessly and nearly screaming when Harry comes in Louis, shooting into the head of the condom. Harry holds still, feeling the contractions in his cock and the muscles in his perineum pumping the liquid out. He breathes hard, muttering obscenities.

“Fuck,” Louis groans, clenching around Harry and feeling the shuddering in his arse. Harry comes for ages. Moving his hips in a circular way, he leaks from the condom. Louis does that to him

Eventually Harry pulls out and kisses Louis on the shoulder where he had bitten him, over the indented teeth marks. Louis pants as Harry rolls him over, putting a giant hand on his cock to jerk him off. It only takes three tugs on the engorged, darkened head before Louis moans loudly and spills over Harry’s hand in thick come. Harry milks him, watching him writhe with intense pleasure. Louis has a full, thick load. Harry realizes Louis hasn’t come in a few days, and right away, he wants to make him come again, to see him in ecstatic pain like that. He wants Louis’ cock in his mouth and he wants to suck the come off, drop by drop. Instead, Louis pushes his hand away and lies back, exhaling slowly, droplets trailing everywhere around them. They lie quietly, side by side, slowly coming down. Their chests rise and fall in sync. Harry wants to put his arm around Louis. Minutes pass in silence. 

The darkness ticks by. Harry makes out some shadows on the ceiling, funny shapes of workout equipment that look distorted by slanted light.

“I should go,” Louis says quietly. He runs a hand gently across Harry’s belly, stroking his butterfly. His fingernails have been bitten to the quick. The pads of his fingers are explorers, and his palm is a icebreaker in the wilderness. Harry feels both soothed and aroused. 

Harry lays his hand over Louis’.

“Why?” he says. “This is so comfy.”

The hard vinyl floor under the blankets knocks into their joints and digs into their soft contours. Both of them start laughing out loud. 

“What are we, Harry?” With his free hand, Louis gestures to the air around them, his wrist pulling an invisible veil along. “What is this, between us?”

“Dating?” Harry suggests. “We’re dating.”

“No,” Louis says resolutely.

Harry tries again. “Fighting? Sparring? Enemies to friends to lovers?” He waits for Louis to comment, but only the ventilation in the building kicks on.  

“We’re training,” Louis settles on it.

He clasps Harry’s fingers, trying to work up enough courage to make him let go. Harry holds on tighter, creating a mini tug-of-war between them. Eventually, after some comical back-and-forth, Louis relents and lets him stay. Harry’s long fingers pat Louis’ skin absentmindedly. Louis takes his hand purposefully, and brings it up to his lips, gently kissing his fingers. 

“Like puppies,” Harry turns toward Louis. “We’re puppies who don’t know any better.” 

He makes Louis laugh again, with real affection.

“Really!” Harry insists, elbowing Louis. “I mean it. We’re like trainable puppies.” 

Harry is exactly like an overgrown puppy, Louis thinks, worse than Clifford. So much worse. For one thing, Clifford would be much more polite. At least Clifford has been trained not to bite, and to let go of things. Human Clifford would have arranged for a nice restaurant with a French maitre d’.

Louis giggles, thinking of it. Hehehehe.

He turns to Harry, seeing only his halo of curls. 

“Sit,” Louis commands, with mock seriousness. He pats the blanket next to him. “Stay.” He smiles, lashes fanned across his cheeks. 

Harry pulls Louis over to him, sliding the blanket across the vinyl floor with Louis on it. Their arms touch each other along their entire length, soft hairs tickling each other’s skin, tattoos all lined up. Harry wants to put his arm around Louis, so Louis can lay his head on his chest and snuggle up, his hair in Harry’s nose, beard scratching his chest. He wants Louis to kiss him again. He wants to hear Louis say “baby” again, and again, and again. He wants to hear him talk some more, to see him laugh without checking himself, to laugh without thinking, without sadness, without doubt. 

“Louis.”

Harry sinks into the blankets, weight on his heart. 

In a voice almost too small to be funny, Harry says, “Heal.”

 

 

 

•••

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

This canon-compliant fic is meant to follow Part 1, [Thumbing My Way Back to You](https://archiveofourown.org/works/19000477). 

Part 3, [Wild Horses](https://archiveofourown.org/works/19740097). 

Tumblr post on [Heel](https://13ways-of-looking.tumblr.com/post/185842315961/heel-by-13ways-13ways-of-looking-summary-louis) if you’d like to reblog. 

**Author's Note:**

> As always, this is a work of fiction. It is not based on actual events. These characters are fictitious. Please do not republish or translate without permission. 
> 
> Thanks for reading.


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